Slowly Sharpen, Gently Fade
by jadeddiva
Summary: Tonks isn’t comfortable with picking a side – she’s such a Hufflepuff – but she knows that day will come, and until then, she will do nothing but wait. Tonks involvement with the Order of the Phoenix. PostGoF through OotP
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** _I wanted to write about Tonks as an Auror as well as her involvement with the Order of the Phoenix. After everything that's happened in DH, I got drawn into the world of OotP. Also, I wanted to write a story where Remus and Tonks aren't instantly attracted to each other, just good friends, and while this will become Remus/Tonks, we've got a long way to go before that happens. Much love to my brilliant beta Jo, who is a fantastic Brit-picker and an all-around wonderful person :)_

* * *

**Slowly Sharpen, Gently Fade**

**1. **

"I've come to the conclusion," Tonks whispers to the wizard sitting at the desk beside hers, "that in order to be an Auror, you also have to be a nutter."

Alan Quincy laughs and leans towards her. "Took you four years to learn that, did it?" he asks, raising his eyebrows at her. "Would have thought it was obvious from day one." He gestures with his head at her former supervisor, which merely serves to demonstrate her point. With a grin, she turns back to her desk.

It's been one week since the Tri-wizard Cup and Cedric Diggory's death, and one week since it was discovered that Barty Crouch Jr. didn't really die in Azkaban. It's also been one week since Alastor Moody – the real one – was admitted to St. Mungo's, five days since he was released, and two days since his last visit to their office (including weekends).

He's here once again, badgering Scrimegeour and calling for a thorough evaluation of Azkaban, the Auror Corps, and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, which he thinks are responsible for a decline in vigilance and accountability. It's created quite a stir in the office, but most Aurors are out these days looking for any evidence that You-Know-Who is – or isn't – active again.

Most, but not all: junior Aurors don't go out nearly as much as seniors, and are left to handle the paperwork. _So unfair_ Tonks thinks as she writes up another case report about (what she assumes to be) another false lead. She's fidgety, stuck inside while Savage and Cantor, her partners, go and have another look at a possible connection between their suspect and the Dark Arts. Mostly what they've found is a lot of Muggle comic books and a Muggle device called the InterNet which allows Muggles to carry on conversations over long distances. They're not sure what any of it does, and not really sure that taking it down to Misuse of Muggle Artifacts will do any good.

"NYMPHADORA!"

"Fuck," she whispers, and to her right Quincy snickers. She takes a deep breath, smiles, and stands up.

"Good morning, Alastor, aren't you a ray of sunshine today?" she asks with a large smile on her face. For added effect, she turns her hair bright yellow, and she hears Quincy muffle his laughter with his hands.

Moody frowns. "Youth these days," he says, then gestures with his walking stick, which she distinctly remembers being confiscated for evidence one week ago (never underestimate Mad-Eye Moody…). "You're coming with me."

She shrugs her shoulders at Quincy, before she follows her mentor down the hall.

"Where are we going?" she asks, but the trip's not too far, just to Kingsley Shacklebolt's cubicle near the door. From every angle, pictures of the Notorious Murderer Sirius Black look down at her, and she has a feeling her hair is no longer bright yellow.

"Kingsley needs someone to help with paperwork," Moody says, gesturing to the large black man seated at his desk. Tonks can't help but roll her eyes, earning her a thump on the leg with Moody's cane.

"The job of an Auror is more than just chasing Dark Wizards," he tells her.

"I have a job," she says, "and it's back there." She points with her thumb towards her cubicle.

"Scrimgeour reassigned you to me temporarily," Shacklebolt says. "Just temporarily. I've been inundated with owls since the Tri-Wizard Cup and –"

She tries not to look too upset, but she does understand the position Shacklebolt is in. Unfortunately, it puts her in an entirely different position…

"Sit down," Moody says, pushing her into a nearby chair. He doesn't say goodbye, but instead goes off to chastise Quincy, who's been snickering behind his desk, forgetting about Moody's magic eye that can see through walls.

"Hello, Monday," she says, and Shacklebolt laughs. She looks at the desk, the parchment with notes and the map with glowing red pins. She tries not to look at pictures of Sirius.

"I don't have to answer any more questions, do I?" she asks quietly. Shacklebolt regards her for a moment.

"No," he says. "No more questions."

When Sirius Black escaped Azkaban, she was called in for questioning as a Ministry employee with a family connection. When Sirius Black escaped the uppermost tower of Hogwarts, Kingsley Shackebolt was given permission to administer Veritaserum to get her to talk – all under the watchful eye of Cornelius Fudge and Scrimgeour, who was irate that Fudge thought that a newly-commissioned Auror would do such a thing.

Of course, she said nothing except she vaguely remembered him and his motorbike and her mum stopped talking to him when she was five, maybe six, and that she's been taught never to speak his name in the household because, in the end, he really was an elitist pureblood wanker.

"Thank god," she says with a sigh, and Shacklebolt smiles.

"I just need you to go through these –" he gestures to an overflowing bin of parchment, "and make a list of all the complaints and sightings. Depending on how crazy things are today, I might have you cross-reference them with prior sightings and try to establish a pattern."

"Any specific categories?" she asks.

"Well – Name, Alleged Location of Sirius Black and the like."

With a wave of her wand, she levitates the bin and sends it towards her desk. "And what do I do afterwards?"

"They go in the archives," he tells her. "Thank you, Tonks."

"No problem," she says, waiting until she leaves his cubicle to roll her eyes. Quincy waits beside his desk, rubbing his head.

"Fuck Mondays," he says, and she smiles.

"Cheers," she replies, pulling out fresh parchment and a new quill. Fuck Mondays indeed.

…

It's not that hard, working for Shacklebolt, though Savage and Cantor are _not_ happy she's got another task and so she's juggling both assignments. She's unhappy about the increase in work but there's nothing she can do, not with the Ministry in a state of chaos.

The Official Stance of the Ministry of Magic is that You-Know-Who was vanquished fourteen years ago and anyone saying he has returned is using fear as a base attempt to undermine the Ministry itself. They have taken to tarnishing the reputation of Harry Potter, the only known survivor of the Killing Curse and possible vanquisher of You-Know-Who, and none of it sits well with Tonks, but she keeps her head down and does her job.

"What do you make of all this about You-Know-Who?" she asks Shacklebolt quietly as she sorts the incoming letters (there's a fresh bin every day).

"Honestly?" he asks, raising an eyebrow, "I'm not sure."

The Official Stance of the Auror Department, and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement as a whole, is that there will always be those who favor the Dark Arts and it is up to the Aurors to capture them, You-Know-Who included.

There are those who follow the Ministry, and those who find their allegiance lies a bit closer to their department. Tonks isn't comfortable with picking a side – she's such a Hufflepuff – but she knows that day will come, and until then, she will do nothing but wait.

…

The benefit to being such a Hufflepuff is that a good number of her classmates have entry-level Ministry jobs, sorting owl-post or answering letters or something of that sort. She's the only Auror of the group – the only Auror out of any Hogwarts classes for several years, actually – and despite her schedule, she does her best to meet at the Leaky for an after-work drink now and again.

It's her turn for the round, so she heads to the bar to flag Tom down and bumps into a surprisingly tall man with red hair and a ridiculous fang earring. It takes her a moment to recognize him, earring and all, then she hits his arm.

"Bill Weasley!" she says, and he smiles, recognizing her immediately (it's rather hard to forget a Metamorphmagus).

"Nymphadora Tonks," he says with a smile. "Heard you're an Auror now."

"So the robes say," she says. The drinks have given her courage to be flirtatious with him, and she likes that power. "Saw your family in the Prophet a few years back, winning that vacation – what have you been up to?"

Bill smiles easily, and her breath catches. "Been working in Egypt, breaking curses and the like. Came back to work at Gringotts."

Tom drops off some drinks, which Bill pays for. Tonks places her order, and then glances in the direction Bill is facing.

"Is that Fleur Delacour?" she asks, feeling a bit less flirtatious and completely ordinary with a half-Veela French Triwizard Champion in the room. The look in Bill's eyes as he looks at Delacour is unmistakable: he definitely fancies her.

"Yeah," he says. "She works at Gringotts now. Wanted to go to a real British pub."

Tonks can't help but laugh. She hardly thinks of the Leaky as authentic, but she supposes things are a bit different in France.

"Well, enjoy your evening," she says, turning back towards the bar.

"Hey," Bill says. "Charlie'll be around for the Canons match against Puddlemore. We're thinking of meeting up here to watch the match."

Charlie Weasley was the only Gryffindor in N.E.W.T. Potions, and she still remembers the day he put his cauldron down next to hers (he knocked over her carefully-placed ingredients, a feat she managed to avoid that day). He still sends her Christmas owls. It would be good to see him again.

"Still rooting for the underdogs, Weasley?" she asks with a smile. Bill winks at her.

"You know our lot," he says. "I'll owl you."

"Ta," she responds, collecting her round of drinks. As she heads back to her table, she thinks about how good it would be to see an old friend, especially in such uncertain times.

…

With each passing day, the letters about Sirius seem more and more ridiculous. Her list is five rolls of parchment long, full of sightings by wizards and Muggles alike and she writes them down with diligent efficiency like a good Auror should.

"Do you honestly believe these?" she asks Shacklebolt as he scans her latest list. She feels sorry for him, always running about the country on these ridiculous leads.

"Honestly?" he says, eyebrows raised. "I'm not sure he was even guilty."

Her jaw drops, just a little, because she's shocked. She's been raised to believe that Sirius Black is a lying, guilty, pureblood bastard and to hear anything else – inside the Ministry no less – seems almost ridiculous.

"Whatcha mean?" she asks, hesitantly. Kingsley leans forward.

"Just that some days, it all feels dodgy – like none of it adds up."

She has nothing to say, so he adds "Don't tell anyone."

"They'd all think you're batshit crazy anyway," she tells him.

That night, she makes herself some tea and thinks about Sirius Black. There are photo albums missing pictures and she can tell they probably featured Black, or maybe the Potters, but she's not sure since her mum doesn't talk about the war. As for Black, she's never heard any evidence specifically against his ability to blow up Muggle streets, but she's read the dossier. Gryffindor at Hogwarts, trouble-maker, best man at the Potter wedding. She's seen eyewitness testimonials, shown to all Aurors when Black escaped Azkaban. Everyone, from Albus Dumbledore to people who barely knew him, stated frankly that they never saw it coming, he seemed so loyal to James and Lily Potter.

What if – what if Black never killed anyone, or what if he wasn't a Death Eater? What if all these reports are fakes, engineered by Black to keep himself safe or by someone who knows the truth, to throw them off the scent? What if everything the Ministry said was a lie?

The implication of that last thought chills her to her core, and she takes a sip of tea, pondering the probability of it all.

…

"Fuck."

Charlie Weasley claps a large hand on her shoulder and gives her a friendly shake. "Told you, Tonks, the Cannons are long overdue for this."

She wants to drown in her pint; thankfully, countless others across the Leaky look like they do too.

While it's great to see Charlie – it's been too long since they talked – she doesn't like the current circumstances. It had seemed too easy – a bet for Puddlemore, against the Cannons, excellent odds.

And then the Cannon's new Chaser scored two in a row, and it was Five Galleons lost.

"Fucking Cannons," she says, frowning as the worst team in the League continues to dominate what should have been a total sweep. Beside her the Weasley brothers shout in triumph as the Cannons score yet again, and she takes a gulp of her drink, deciding she needs another.

"Anyone else?" she asks, holding up her near-empty glass, and no one's paying attention, not even Fleur Delacour, who is hanging on Bill Weasley's arm while he explains the history of the Cannons to her. With a sigh, she finishes the dregs of her pint and heads to the bar.

On her way, she sees a flurry of movement out the corner of her eye, unusual because the Cannons aren't in scoring position again, and everyone is watching the small, magical figures above the bar with rapt attention. What catches her eye is the sudden duck and swerve of a man, dressed sloppily in old clothes with a thatch of ginger hair. He makes another sudden movement, and she sees his hand dip in and out of the pocket of a witch's robe.

She places her glass on the bar, and, reaching for her wand in her pocket, decides she'll have a go at the wanker (sure, this might be the way to vent frustration at losing money, but she is fine with that).

She makes her way towards him, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible – until she trips over some wizard's staff and the thief sees her. And somehow recognizes that she's a copper (or maybe he's just paranoid). And takes off.

The chase is quick; once outside, a well timed _Immobilus_ prevents him from moving, and she's about to inflict some law and order when Charlie exits the pub.

"I thought you were off duty," he says to her, but she shrugs.

"Caught this one stealing," she says, at which case the little bastard cries out, "WAS NOT!"

"I saw you!" she says.

"Ain't go no proof," he tells her, and, frustrated, she takes out her wand and taps his wrists. A pair of handcuffs materialize, binding his arms. Then, with another wave of her wand, the pilfered items trickle out of him in droves: gold, silver, and bronze coins, a necklace, some shoelaces, and an expensive pocket-watch.

"You've got to be kidding me," she says, as she conjures a sack to collect the stolen items. When she glances up at the thief, he's staring at her, slack-jawed.

"Ow'd you learn that?" he asks, and she rolls her eyes.

"Right, then," Charlie says. "I'll head back in."

"Be back in a bit," she responds.

Of course, catching a thief on game day means that no one's on duty when she brings the little bastard in. All the trainees who had been assigned a shift have obviously skived off, so she's left with an old witch manning the registry who, she knows, cannot handle this thieving little shit on her own.

And so she books him. And sets bail. And waits, hoping someone will come and claim him, or one of the trainees will return so she can yell at them for being slack arses and leaving their posts in the middle of a shift (she does love scaring the wee ones, now that she has a shiny badge).

Thankfully, the wireless works so she's able to hear the rest of the game, but with distractions.

"Shouldn't have brought me in 'ere, love, could be out there-"

"Shut it if you know what's good for you!" she threatens after at least the tenth smart remark in a quarter of an hour. "I'm the one who's still got their wand!"

"Got a bigger n' betta one," is the response.

"Not for much longer!"

Someone coughs, and she turned to see a tall man with limp hair standing in the doorway.

"I believe you have something of mine," he says. She frowns. He gestures towards the jail cell, where Mundungus Fletcher (what sort of name is _that_?) peers out.

"Allo, Moony," he says. The man waves back.

"You honestly want to claim him?" she asks.

"Unfortunately, the obligation has fallen onto me, as everyone else is watching the game of the century and I already lost my bet," he says, reaching into his back pocket.

"Same here - bloody Cannons," she says.

"Well, actually I bet that a certain thief wouldn't get into trouble tonight and I really should have learned not to bet against a sure thing," he tells her with a sad smile.

She smiles in return, opening the records book. She sets a quill on top of it. "State your name and purpose for the records, please."

He reaches for the quill but it jumps up, alarmed.

"Automated," she says. "Just say your name out loud."

"Remus John Lupin, here to post bail for Mundungus Fletcher," the man says clearly. The quill scribbles away, but under his name it writes something in parentheses: _(Lycanthrope)_

"Oh," she says. She was not expecting that.

"Sorry," he apologizes suddenly. "You probably don't get much opportunity to meet – "

"No, not really," she says, quickly trying to appease him and think of ways not to potentially offend him. "Sometimes we get some in here for misdemeanors, but it's not like we know until we look at the books." She gestures to the large book in front of her, feeling so awkward. What was she supposed to say? Aurors are trained in the ways to subdue and – if need be – kill a werewolf, but never how to maintain proper communication with them. The way the Ministry trains them, she forgets they're even human until she meets this Lupin bloke.

"I see," he says, taking out several Galleons. "This enough to cover it?"

"Yeah, though he's really not worth a sickle, if even that much," she says.

"I 'eard that!" the petty thief cries.

"Well," she says, gesturing with her wand and opening the bars of Fletcher's cell, "I hope both of you learned your lesson."

"My lesson?" Lupin asks.

"Never bet against the odds," she tells him. She turns to Fletcher. "And never fuck with an off-duty Auror during a Quidditch match."

Fletcher looks like he's about to say something, but one glance from his companion silences him, so he mock-bows and shuffles out the door.

"Goodnight," the other man says, and she smiles.

"Night."

On her way back to the Leaky, she realizes that she's met her first werewolf. She's never really been for or against them, just a bit scared, as they're dark creatures and renowned for being almost impossible to defeat, but now that she's met one, she feels sad more than anything else. The fellow who came to pick up Fletcher looked like the sorriest man that ever lived, and when she returns to the bright, cheerful atmosphere of the pub, his sadness seems to linger on her skin even though they never touched.


	2. 2

**Slowly Sharpen, Gently Fade **

2.

When the Aurors go out for drinks after work, they talk about the previous war. Some, like Moody (who comes and goes as he pleases) have vivid stories of fighting Death Eaters. Others were in Hogwarts when it all happened. All seem to remember the constant state of fear the Wizarding World lived under, and attending the funerals of their fellow Aurors.

Tonks doesn't remember a lot of this: she was seven when the war ended, and she wasn't even in the country. It's taken her years to piece together exactly why they left Britain, but from what she's learned, her mother was afraid that the Death Eaters and her mother's sister, Bellatrix Lestrange, would come after them because her father is Muggle-born and, well, she's not exactly normal now is she? They went to America, and stayed there for a month, traveling the country in Muggle cars and driving on the wrong side of the road. She remembers little from the trip except eating a lot of chips that weren't called chips and having to make sure she didn't change how she looked around the Muggles. But she does remember her mother crying tears of joy when they stopped in a wizarding community in the South and there was a newspaper telling of You-Know-Who's downfall.

Of course, that newspaper was followed up with news coverage of the capture of Sirius Black, for aiding and abetting the Dark Lord as he sought to kill the Potters. And, not to be forgotten, the imprisonment of both Black and then Bellatrix Lestrange in Azkaban.

But, needless to say, she doesn't talk much about the first war.

…

"Think I'm about due for a holiday," she says out loud one day. Quincy snickers beside her.

"Really now?" he asks with a grin.

"It's just," she starts, then stops. "I'm tired," she finally admits, "so bloody tired all the time. And overworked. And I know I've got loads of days saved up."

"That might be true," Quincy says, "but they'd never let you go."

It's true, and she knows it, and she settles back down to her paper work with an overly-dramatic sigh that fits the occasion perfectly.

Within five minutes, however, paperwork must be abandoned; it's time for the weekly debriefing, and all the Aurors in the office file into a small amphitheatre, waiting for those in the field to return. She sits at the end of a row, next to Quincy who, she notices, looks very, very tired as well. Rowenna Proudfoot is next to him, and babbling about some petty thief she caught selling diseased frogs to an older witch in Diagon Alley –

"Hey," Tonks says, leaning over. "Was his name Fletcher?"

Proudfoot's brown eyes go wide. "Yeah, it was."

"Caught him during the Cannons came, filching gold from distracted wizards," Tonks says. Proudfoot smiles in understanding.

"Everyone else had skived off to watch the game so I had to wait until someone paid his bail," she continues, "and a werewolf came to collect him." She's not sure why she throws that part in, but she does, earning an eye-roll from Quincy.

"Petty thieves and werewolves," he says. "Of course they'd be together."

"I've never actually met a werewolf before," Tonks points out. "He seemed really sad."

"Of course he would be, with all the restrictions the Ministry has on them," Proudfoot points out.

"For good reason, though," Quincy adds as an afterthought. Proudfoot shrugs.

"Maybe," Tonks says. She knows that werewolves are classified as Dark Creatures, and that, like every other Dark Creature, restrictions are heaped upon them by the Ministry which limits their employment opportunities as well as accessibility to social services. But she's never really thought hard about werewolves, especially since she's got her own regulations and registration, being what she is.

Scrimgeour clears his throat to start the debriefing, and she notices there's a little toad-faced woman sitting on a high stool in a corner of the room. She recognizes her as a high Ministry official, and realizes this is not an ordinary debriefing, but something very different.

Her name is Dolores Umbridge, and she is Senior Undersecretary. She looks so smug and self-satisfied, and the reason is obvious: Auror debriefings rarely feature senior-level officials other than the Minister, and this is quite the coup.

The meeting begins like normal, with Shacklebolt's latest news on the whereabouts of Notorious Murderer Sirius Black, which Tonks already knows about because she helped with the paperwork. Then Senior Aurors present their findings, from information about the Muggle InterNet (also her work) and apparent rumblings about giants. Just as the meeting draws to a close, Umbridge clears her throat.

"If I may," she says, and Tonks suddenly feels apprehensive about what will happen. Scrimgeour nods, though he doesn't look happy about it.

"I am so very happy to be here today, and to see the wonderful work that the Auror Department is undertaking. The safety of the Wizarding World has long rested on your shoulders, and your dedication to the Ministry has been very much appreciated." Her pause is dramatic, and with a sigh she continues,

"There has been much discussion lately of certain dark wizards and dark magic. As Aurors, the Ministry is confident that you will continue to perform your duties with a dedication to professionalism. The Minister for Magic's stance in these tumultuous times is to maintain a steady course of action with no deviations. And we are confident that the Auror Department will continue to support the Ministry."

Her smile is chilling, and Tonks skin crawls.

Quincy leans over. "I need a fuckin' drink."

"Oi," Proudfoot elbows him, "me too, after that."

When Tonks stumbles home that night, mildly intoxicated, she trips over a pair of trainers she left by the door and right into a potted Ray of Sunshine plant she'd been tending so carefully over the last four months. She piles the dirt into a small hillock in the green valley of her shag carpet, and heads to the bookshelf where, shoved between a copy of _Which Witch?: A Forty-Year Retrospective of Notable Witches_ and _Quick and Easy Cleaning Spells _is a large (and slightly dusty) book. She knows her notes from Auror Training should be in a more prominent and easily-accessible position but, sod it, she doesn't care right now. She pages through her handbook, past illustrated pictures on the proper way to arrest and detain a suspect, all the way to the back.

There, she finds it: a subsection entitled "Ministry Standards on Dark Creatures and Other Magical Beings." Herein lies all the Ministry legislature, automatically updated (the reason this book cost a small fortune…) and laying out in complicated language that she can barely understand sober, the rules for Dark Creatures such as vampires, banshees, and werewolves. She stops for a moment to read the subheading ("Dark Creatures are often categorized by their violence and bloodlust -") but skips past that, to the very back of the section.

There, under "Other Magical Creatures" is a section entitled "Metamorphmagi and Other Shape-Shifters." She's read this so many times, especially after she started Auror training but sometimes after commissioning, when she received a dark look and a long glance from a coworker.

The Ministry Standards on Metamorphmagi are as follows: they are rare, and can only be born, and while their gift is indeed valuable to the Magical Community, they must be registered like Animagi. It goes on some more in vague terms about possible threats but how there is nothing, as of now, about the danger they pose to the greater wizarding community. In retrospect, despite the fogginess of the drink, she supposes she should be grateful that she was not called into questioning today, though she almost suspects it in the future. The way things are going, no one will be trusted, let alone a Junior Auror Metamorphmagus with Death Eaters and pureblood freaks dangling off her family tree.

She closes the book and leans her head against the wall, feeling as if all of this is spinning down the drain.

…

Of course, she doesn't go out with the Aurors all the time: she's still assigned to Shacklebolt, and she's working with her regular partners on detail at least once a week. Her desk is piled high with paperwork she's never sure she'll finish and she barely manages lunch, let alone breaks. She goes home and has a stiff drink, to cleanse herself from the propaganda, the non-stop litany of offenses against Dumbledore and Harry Potter. She wakes up in the night breathless and scared because of dreams, dreams with faces she's never met but which glare at her from the pages of history books and wanted posters.

There is a deep uneasiness that seems to fill every pore of her body, a malcontent that makes her unsteady. She's not sure she understands what's going on anymore, between the murmurings at work of changes in the laws and the_ lies_ that are coming from the mouths of those above her (she tries not to think of them as lies but she doesn't believe anything anymore and that's what makes it so difficult).

On Sunday, she goes to her parents for lunch. She pushes the food around her plate and when her mother asks her if she's been feeling ill lately, she shrugs.

"Did you ever think, just for a moment, that Sirius was innocent?" she asks. She hears rather than sees her mother's fork fall on her plate with a loud clatter that seems to ring in her ears.

"At first," Andromeda Tonks says after a lengthy pause, "but I try not to think about it anymore." She picks up her fork and pushes a potato across the plate. "It hurts too much to think."

…

She's working late one night – more paper work (it's always paper work) when Shacklebolt stops by her cubicle.

"Thanks for the latest update, Tonks," he says, holding up the latest list of locations of Sirius that she's given him.

"Ta," she says, glancing up briefly.

"Look," he says, pulling Quincy's empty chair towards her desk (stupid git's on a stakeout, the lucky bastard) and says, "Moody wants to see me about this Black thing. Tonight. His house. He wants me to bring you."

"His house. The house that Mad-Eye Moody built?" she asks with a laugh, shocked at this invitation.

"Tonks," Shacklebolt says, "just – please."

She puts her quill down. This must be important, and she feels foolish enough to trust both Shacklebolt and Moody. That doesn't stop the obvious thoughts – what if they're Polyjuiced Dark Wizards out to kidnap and kill her? What if they're Ministry moles, planted to see if she doubts? What if what if what if?

"All right," she says without much deliberation.

"Great," Shacklebolt says with a smile. "Now, you need to meet me outside the Leaky in fifteen minutes. We'll catch up." He stands, and she realizes he's trying to play it safe. Whatever trap he might be trying to lure her in…

_Curiousity killed the cat_ . "Right. Fifteen."

And in fifteen minutes she's outside the Leaky, watching as Kinglsey Shacklebolt slinks out of the shadows and nods at her.

"Can you change your hair a bit?' he asks. "I don't want people to know we're together."

She nods, and turns it mousy brown, at the same time lengthening her nose. Shacklebolts smiles.

"Well done."

The House that Mad-Eye built is a lopsided creation on a Muggle street. They can't draw too close, Shacklebolt tells her, because the charms detect magic (their wands) and so they must signal Moody so he can disarm them.

Shacklebolt takes out his wand and, with a wave, sends a small cat-like Patronus towards Moody's house.

"Nice," she says. "What animal is it?"

"A lynx," he responds.

"Mine's a turtle. I feel sort of stupid about it, but it's one of those massive sea turtles so it's got wicked flippers and a scary-looking beak," she says in a rush, but the smile on her face relieves her fears about the inadequacy of her Patronus.

Fairly quickly, a silvery Mastiff comes down the street towards them. She recognizes it as Moody's, and Shacklebolt nods.

Moody ushers them in quickly, recasting security charms before he closes the door. She's not surprised that his house smells like dusty parchment, and that said dusty parchment occupies most of the floor and the bookcases on the wall, and that a great majority are not books but copies of _The Daily Prophet _and old Auror Department newsletters. There are photographs of a younger (and still grumpy) Moody lining the narrow hallway to the kitchen, photos with him being presented medals because of his deeds and there, at the end, a group shot with some people, one of which looks vaguely familiar –

"Mad-Eye," she says, "why do you have a photo of yourself and Sirius Black?"

Moody, who has been busying himself at the stove, returns to the hallway.

"That, Nymphadora, is the Order of the Phoenix," he tells her. "Dumbledore founded it to fight You-Know-Who." His eyes linger on the photo, and she wonders if he'll take it down but instead he turns away. "Black was a member, at one time. That's James Potter he's standing beside."

"Oh," she says, turning away and entering the kitchen. "I never heard of the Order of the Phoenix before."

"Of course you've never heard of it," Moody replies. "It was a secret society."

"Oh," she says. She takes a seat at the rickety wooden table, and soon a glass of firewhiskey is in front of her.

"Cheers," she says, picking it up as Moody and Shacklebolt sit down.

There is small talk at first, with Shacklebolt telling Moody about Umbridge's appearance at the department meeting, and Moody uttering some choice curse words in response.

"Ridiculous," Moody says, draining his glass. "That Fudge continues to ignore the evidence is completely ridiculous."

"You know how much Fudge dislikes Dumbledore," Shacklebolt points out. "Fudge is afraid that Dumbledore's right, and he's been bribed for years into thinking men like Lucius Malfoy can be trusted."

She listens to the discussion without any real input. She's often thought the Ministry's stance on former Death Eaters has been too lenient, especially since no one found You-Know-Who's body, but hasn't dared criticize it because she considered that the consensus opinion – at least in the Auror Department.

Moody turns to her, and studies her carefully.

"Nymphadora," Moody says, leaning across the table, "where do you stand on all of this?"

"All of what?" she asks, uncertain what he's talking about.

"The Ministry's present position of denying You-Know-Who's return," Moody says.

"And the presumed innocence of Sirius Black," Shaklebolt adds.

"Where do your allegiances lie?" Moody asks. She shrugs.

"I'm not sure how I feel," she admits uneasily. "I do what the Department tells me to because that's my job – "

"But you've wondered if maybe things aren't as they seem? That perhaps Dumbledore is right?" Moody presses on. She remembers that Dumbledore and Moody are close and wonders if that has anything to do with this.

"Well, yeah," she says. "Of course I believe Dumbledore over Fudge." She covers her mouth with her hands, like she said the wrong thing, but Moody just smiles.

"Nymphadora," he says, leaning towards her.

"Am I in trouble? Oh god, did you slip Veritaserum in my drink? Are you going to turn me in?" she asks, suddenly very frightened. She can imagine the smile on that little troll Umbridge's face when she sees that _Metamorphmagus _and fallen branch of the House of Black brought to justice, and –

"Tonks." That's Shacklebolt's hand on her shoulder, trying to calm her down. "We're not going to turn you in."

"Then what are you going to do?" she asks, sinking back into her chair.

"Do you trust us?" Moody asks. Of course she trusts Moody, and Shacklebolt is a career Auror, and she very much doubts he would risk his job.

She nods.

"Good." Moody pushes back from the table, grabs his walking stick, and heads for the door. "Tomorrow night. Meet here at seven o'clock."

"What if I have to work late?" she asks, realizing this is the cue to leave.

"You won't," Shacklebolt says. "I'll see to that."

"Okay," she says, putting her jacket on.

She is a fully-trained and fully-qualified Auror. Nothing should frighten her. Nothing but whatever scheme Moody has concocted.

On the way back from his house, she tries to ask Shacklebolt what's going on.

"That's Moody's business," he says.

"So, you don't know what Moody wants with me, or what's going on tomorrow night?"

"No," he says, "I know. I just can't tell you because it's Moody's business."

She stops walking. "Why me?"

He smiles. "Moody's got faith in you – when the time comes, you'll do the right thing."

She rolls her eyes.

Shacklebolt asks her to step in for a drink at the Leaky, but she turns his offer down, as she needs to process this new information. When she arrives home, she makes herself some tea and sits down. It's all almost too much to process: a secret society – founded by Dumbledore – where Moody and Sirius Black fought side by side (assuming Black is innocent, which is another issue itself); Moody and Shacklebolt in apparent accord (not really that surprising, though); the possibility that the Ministry has concocted this plan to catch her and try her for treason and sedition.

She snorts into her tea. She's seen the upper echelons of the Ministry, and very much doubts that they would be able to come up with a secret society, let alone speak the name Sirius Black without a sneer. But really, she trusts them, because Merlin knows the last time that Moody actually went along with someone else' plans was the last time she was off duty, and it's gotten so she can't even remember that far back.

…

"Bloody cold for July," she says, and Moody hits her shin with his walking stick. "Oi!"

"Quiet," he says. "Watch for the Muggles – and stop rolling your eyes, Nymphadora!"

"I hate to tell you this," Shacklebolt says, "but three wizards in robes would be far less suspicious than talking shrubbery."

She can't help but laugh then, and stumbles out from behind the bush which Moody carefully chose as a hiding place. They're in a grassy square near somewhere in London (where, exactly, Moody refuses to tell her, believing Side-Along Apparation not at all degrading for a fully-trained Auror). With a quick look around, Moody checks to make sure there are no Muggles in sight, and surprisingly, the streets around the square are clear.

"Come on," he says, hobbling off across the pavement, Tonks and Shacklebolt behind him. He stops in front of a row of houses.

"Which is it?" she asks.

Moody hands her a piece of parchment. "Read it to yourself," he tells her. "Don't say anything out loud."

She nods, unfolding it. There is a phrase, written very clearly on the bit of parchment.

_The Headquarter of the Order of the Phoenix is located at Number 12, Grimmauld Place._

And suddenly, the earth shakes. Bricks realign as a new home appears, windows and trim and everything. The noise is so loud that she looks around them, hoping no Muggle has heard.

"Unplottable," Moody says. "With a Fidelius charm. Only apparent to those who know what they're looking for."

"Oh," is all she can say. The noise has subsided, and Moody starts up the stairs. He touches his want to the doorknob, and after a few mechanical noises, the door swings open.

"Keep silent," he says. "Follow me. Watch your step."

She rolls her eyes again, but finds he's right - it's very dark in the hallway, and Moody's walking very slow, as if to avoid detection. Adrenaline rushes through her as she considers the possibility that this is a raid on Death Eaters or some other fool plan that only Moody in his paranoia could concoct. Hand on her wand, wand at the ready, she follows him into the hallway, almost tripping but immediately thankful that Shacklebolt catches her. Then, down the stairs, and into – a brightly-lit kitchen full of people.

There is a red-haired woman she recognizes immediately as Mrs. Weasley, Bill and Charlie's mother. Bill is also there, as is a red-headed man who must be his father. McGonagall and – Snape? – are also there, along with some chubby dark-haired witch and the man who came to bail out the petty thief the night of the Cannons match.

"Kingsley Shacklebolt you already know," Moody says, "and this is Nymphadora Tonks."

"Wotcher," she says quietly.

* * *

_**Author's Note:** Thank you to all who reviewed. I'm sorry I haven't replied individually, but I do appreciate it. And thanks once again to Jo, my fantastic beta. _


	3. 3

**Slowly Sharpen, Gently Fade**

** 3. **

"Wotcher, _Nymphadora_," Bill says with a grin, and she wants the floor to open up and swallow her whole.

"It's so good to meet finally meet you," Mrs. Weasley says with a smile. "Charlie's mentioned you often. You took Potions together, didn't you?"

She swears she hears Snape mutter something, then the man from the gaol – Lupin, was it? – speaks up.

"Did you say something, Severus?" he asks, earning him a sneer, and she thinks she should not underestimate the quiet-looking man.

"Let's all sit down," McGonagall says, "Albus will be here shortly."

The name sends a shock through her when she realizes she's waiting for Albus _Dumbledore_ at a meeting for the secret society of the Order of the Phoenix which Moody brought her to, in an Unplottable House complete with secret spells and security measures. Puzzle pieces begin to fall together and she wonders what exactly Moody's expecting from her.

People start to move, finding seats around the large kitchen table. She sits between Moody and Shacklebolt, and listens while the others make small talk about Quidditch, and though she's got a great deal to say about the Harpie's recent trade, she keeps quiet. She needs to observe how everything works, and what exactly is going on.

She doesn't have to wait long, because soon a figure she hadn't seen before bounds out of a doorway she didn't notice, and slides into a chair next to Lupin.

"Nasty bugger was terrorizing Buckbeak," he says, and she blinks, she barely recognizes him. The man at the table is not the gaunt, bug-eyed prisoner staring back from Ministry notices. This man looks well-fed and agitated, full of the sort of nervous energy a prisoner of Azkaban would not have -

Their eyes meet, and she cannot breathe (_his eyes are so familiar_) until he sighs and slams a hand on the table.

"Well?" he asks, glaring at her, and the conversation about Quidditch dies down. She feels dizzy.

"I…" she starts, uncertain what to say because what she _wants_ to say is _They tortured me to find you and you are sitting right here, they gave me Veritaserum and why are you sitting right here?_ but Shacklebolt (how is he so calm?) speaks first.

"This is Nymphadora Tonks," he says. "She works with me." He pauses. "This is Andromeda's daughter, Sirius."

The look on Sirius Black's face changes immediately from one of indignation to something else, something she can't describe – equal parts shock and curiosity - and she looks away.

"I had forgotten about you," Black says softly. "Moody mentioned another Auror and I never associated the name he mentioned with your family."

She looks back, and the expression on Black's face makes her insides tear. He looks so very sad, sitting there, looking at her, and she'd have more pity if it wasn't for the latter part of his statement which makes her head spin.

"Wait," she says. "You lot know about me."

"Moody suggested we bring in another Auror, and your name was mentioned," Mr. Weasley says.

"So he had you assigned to me, so I could evaluate you for myself," Shacklebolt says.

"But we all did our own research," Bill added. "The time when Charlie came to town – "

"I met you that night," she says, looking at Lupin, who nods.

"Yes, you did," he says, "though that was not planned. We did not know Dung was going –"

"Wait," she says. "That thief is in the Order?"

"Am not a thief," the pile of rags in the corner says, and she glares at it. "Am an independent retailer."

She snorts at his phrasing, then turns back to Shacklebolt. "So you're recruiting, then, and thought I'd be a good match?"

"You certainly can handle yourself as an Auror," Bill tells her. "Despite what Dung might say."

"While I'm quite certain Mr. Fletcher has a great deal to say on the subject," a familiar voice says. "I think we should get started." She turns to find Dumbledore seated at the head of the table. He smiles at her. "Good evening, Nymphadora. I'm quite glad you could join us."

She nods, still intimidated by Dumbledore five years out of Hogwarts.

The Order of the Phoenix, she learns, is a society composed of a small but very dedicated number of individuals who want nothing more than to ensure the Wizarding World remains free from You-Know-Who's evil plans. Snape - _Snape!_ - is operating as a double-agent, and it's apparent from Black's suspicious glances down the table that he may or may not be trusted. Furthermore, the Order is, in fact, actively recruiting – as active as a secret society can be, really - as well as formulating plans to protect Harry Potter, but this meeting is mostly for her sake, to discuss whether or not she'd be interested in joining.

It's a daunting prospect, being put on the spot in a foreign room with people you've just met and people you've known for years judging your reactions. Pledging your allegiance to your government and your nation is one thing, but actively working to undermine the government which pays you – all in the name of the good and just – is something completely different. Her head is divided; it tells her that she'll be caught, and then what will Umbridge do to her? But it also tells her that she can't deny the idiocy of the Ministry, the lies and deceit of senior officials any longer.

And her heart tells her that if Dumbledore believes this is the right course of action, then she will believe him.

But for the moment, since everyone's looking at her, she sputters out, "I really don't know yet."

Dumbledore smiles from his end of the table. "Of course. Now, I believe Molly has prepared us a lovely meal…" turning to Molly Weasley who, it seems, is the cook and housekeeper and has been waiting for her cue all evening.

The meal is quite lovely – stew and bread, with two different kinds of pudding for desert. She's just about to start eating when Shacklebolt moves and Black slips in beside her. He looks at her, studies the lines of her face and then says, in a low voice, "Tell me about your mother."

It's a bit awkward at first, talking to the elitist pureblood wanker she's been forbidden to mention, but she tells him about her mum, about what she does for a living (Department of Magical Housing, Rules & Regulations) and about her father (Department of Magical Transport, Portkey Office) and a little about herself.

Then it's easy, so easy to talk to him and she thinks yes, maybe she can do this, maybe she can stop the darkness, or at least try, and makes a note to sign herself up before she leaves. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees that Lupin and Moody are watching her, despite being in conversation, and she smiles to her mentor shakily.

She can do this. If they do this, she can. It can't be that hard, right?

…

There's no paperwork to sign when you become an Order member, no loyalty oath or blood pact – just the simple promise you will aid the Order to help prevent the rise of Voldemort.

It's understood that the job comes with risks. Names are mentioned at meetings – the McKinnons, the Potters, the Longbottoms, Fabian and Gideon Prewett, Edgar Bones – a litany of saints, and a prayer of thanksgiving lifted up to the heavens in hope of salvation.

After the meeting, Shacklebolt asks her to stop by his flat for a drink, and promises that he'll answer her questions.

"What about Peter Pettigrew?" she asks as he pours each of them a glass of firewhiskey, and after he tells her everything about the Black case she's never known, like how Black allegedly switched his role as the Potter's secret-keeper with Pettigrew and how he claims (and both Snape and Lupin confirm) that Pettigrew is a servant of You-Know-Who.

"Oh," she says, taking a sip. "Does the Order know I'm – what I am?"

Shacklebolt nods. "Yeah. Was a point in your favour, actually, though I doubt you're surprised."

"Not really," she says. "So they know about Lupin, then?"

Shacklebolt seems surprised, so she rushes to add more. "He had to sign for Fletcher, and the register-"

"- recognizes werewolves," Shacklebolt says with an understanding nod. "Of course. And yes, the Order knows, and there are precautions taken for full moons."

"How did you get into all of this?" she asks, because he seems to know a lot, and every time she thinks of that Lupin fellow she feels horrid.

"Put the pieces together myself," he says. "And it was Dumbledore that helped me with the pieces."

"I forget, Kingsley, what house were you in?" she asks, suddenly curious.

"Gryffindor – few years younger than your dad, but I remember when Black and Potter and their lot came in," he says with a nostalgic grin. "I remember your dad too, and – "

"No stories,' she says with a laugh. "I do not need to know what my parents may or may not have done at school."

Shacklebolt smiles. "I'm glad you're aboard, Tonks. The Order needs some young blood."

She smiles at the compliment. It's good to feel useful when all she does is file papers at work and not any actual law enforcement.

…

Being in a secret society is difficult, and lonely. She can't tell any of her Ministry friends, and so when she can't make it out that night, she feels guilty – like she's hiding something, which she is _but still_. Thankfully, they seem to understand, as many Ministry workers have been pulling overtime to ensure the Ministry's anti-Dumbledore campaign running at full capacity (when did she become such a cynic?)

Two days in and she's already fidgety.

Shacklebolt sends her down to Misuse of Muggle Artifacts one day with a talking motorcycle helmet which someone sent in. The helmet swears it helped Sirius Black escape the country and she's not entirely sure if it's lying or not. She frowns all the way down to the Office, and then furrows her brow when she recognizes Arthur Weasley.

"Hello, Tonks!" he says cheerfully. "You might not remember me but I'm Charlie's dad? Charlie Weasley?"

The ruse is obvious, and she commends the Order for taking these precautions (so obviously bearing the signature of one Mad-Eye Moody…).

"Good morning, Weasley," she says with a smile. "Got something for you here." As she reaches forward to hand him the helmet, she trips over a garbage bin and sends old memos flying across the floor (well, more like feebly limping and trying to become airborne despite their withered and decrepit state). With a wave of her wand, she sets the bin upright again and starts collecting the memos.

"Sorry about that," she says sheepishly, but Mr. Weasley smiles.

"Not important," he tells her. "It's a small office."

Indeed it is, with barely enough room for one employee, let alone the two (and only two) staff of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office. The office has long had a reputation for being ridiculous, especially in light of Arthur Weasley's notorious love of Muggle gadgets, though she has to admit, there's a job for everyone.

"Going for a cuppa," the other occupant of the office, an elderly wizard, says as he stands up and hobbles over to the doorway (stepping on Tonks' foot in the process). "Fancy one, Arthur?"

"No thank you, Perkins," Weasley responds. "What do we have here, Auror Tonks?"

At this moment, the helmet launched into a rousing rendition of "It's a Long Way to Tipperary," which she only recognizes because it's the tune her gran's doorbell plays when rung (Weasley would have such fun with that…)

"Fantastic!" Weasley exclaims.

"When it's not singing marching songs, it likes to talk about Sirius Black," she says. "Shacklebolt says you should have it."

"Yes, of course," he says, taking it from her. Placing it on his desk, he looks over her shoulder out the door, then says in a low voice, "Molly would like to have you over for supper tonight, so you can become familiar with the house."

"That sounds lovely," she says, thinking about her meager food supply at home and the delicious meal from her first meeting.

"Wonderful," Weasley says with a smile. "Now, I know you just Apparated there last time, so wait for me outside the visitor's entrance and I'll take you to the house."

She nods, as this is acceptable, and spends the afternoon with a knot in her stomach. It's not that she's apprehensive about going back to headquarters, it's that she's still so shiny and new, and _so young_ and is terrified of making a bad impression.

The walk to the house with Mr. Weasley passes in companionable chatter, where he asks her about her job and asks her to recount, from her perspective, the infamous burning cauldron incident that resulted in two full months of detention for both Charlie and herself. She pays attention to the streets and the turns they make, tracing the route in her head for future reference. At the door, he performs the security charms and promises to teach her before she goes home.

The darkness of the ancient house, combined with the smell of mold, makes her uncomfortable (how many houses of dark wizards has she seen that are far worse than this?) but the kitchen, with its warmth and pleasant smell, make up for it.

"Nymphadora, dear!" Mrs. Weasley calls out, "please, do sit down and make yourself at home."

"Thank you, Mrs. Weasley," Tonks says, sitting at the table. Taking a moment to look around, she sees that she's not alone, but Lupin is there too, seated at the far hand and making a casual note of her arrival.

"Nonsense, dear, call me Molly," Mrs - _Molly_ - says, placing a steaming cup of tea before Tonks on the table. "Now, Arthur, there's a ghoul in the upstairs bathroom I need you to have a look at – "

"I told you I could help, Molly," Lupin says, though his eyes have returned to the stack of papers he's reading at the table.

"Don't be silly, Remus, you're on duty tonight," she says, pushing her husband back out of the kitchen before he can greet it's other inhabitant.

There's an awkward moment, then Lupin asks "Do you want milk and sugar?" and when she nods, embarrassed, he sends them from the counter to the table with a flick of his wand.

She's not sure what to do here, with him, and the only thing that occurs to her is to apologize for being rude the first time they met. She's not entirely sure she was being rude, but she doesn't want to make a bad impression (she is the daughter of Andromeda Tonks whether she likes it or not).

"I'm sorry," she says suddenly. He looks up from his papers, and she continues. "I hope I didn't offend you when we first met."

"On the contrary," he says, "you owe me no apology at all. Compared to most of the interactions I've had with Ministry employees, ours was practically perfect."

"Practically?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, there was the matter of a certain minor felon…" Lupin says. "But no, you didn't offend me in the slightest, and as I very much doubt you have any prejudices against werewolves, I expect little trouble in the future."

"You're very loquacious," she says, and Lupin smiles, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"I have been told that, on occasion," he says. "And since you broached the topic, I thought it best to have everything said and done."

"Good point," she responds. "I just wanted to, you know…"

"Thank you, Nymphadora," he says with a sincere smile.

"Oh, don't call me that," she says, playing with her teaspoon. "I can't stand that bloody name."

"It's your name, though," Lupin points out as he stands up, gathering his papers.

"Sometimes we can't help what we are," she says softly, hoping he'll understand but worried the moment it leaves her mouth that she's insulted him. She changes her hair to bright orange for added affect, and he smiles.

"Very true," he says. "So what shall I call you, then?"

"My dad's family calls me Dora," she says. "I don't mind that. Everyone else just calls me Tonks."

"Tonks it is, then," Lupin says with a polite nod. "I'll try to remember next time."

"Don't worry," she says, smiling. "If you don't, I'll just nag you until you remember."

"Indeed," Lupin responds dryly, with a raise of his eyebrows, on his way out. Luckily, Molly reenters, and smiles at her.

"Come and help me with the dishes, dear," Molly says, but – as usual – she manages to break several just by coming into contact with them, making Molly frown and Tonks' hair turn a weak shade of red.

"Why don't you just sit down, dear – you seem distracted tonight," Molly says, waving her wand towards the pile of dishes.

"I think I offended Mr. Lupin," Tonks says suddenly, and Molly laughs.

"I doubt that," Molly replies as she puts dishes on the table. "He's an unusual one, Remus, but he's got a good heart and it takes a great deal to offend him."

"Not even Snape manages to offend him," Black says as he enters the room, and she flinches. If the conversation was that obvious, that loud, who else could have heard?

"Good ol'e Moony has the patience of a saint," Black says as he sits down at the table.

"Moony," Tonks repeats. "Fletcher called him that at the jail. It's a nickname – oh," she says as it all becomes clear. Werewolf – full moon – _Moony_.

"We all had nicknames, back then," Black says, playing with a knife. "Mine was Padfoot. James was Prongs." He does not talk about Pettigrew, and she is smart enough not to ask.

"Supper's ready!" Molly calls up the stairs, and suddenly a great surge of ginger people stomp down the stairs, followed by Lupin. It startles her, and it must be obvious as Black leans around the table and says, "They're Molly and Arthur's kids. They're staying here for the summer."

"Oh," she says. "That's a lot of people for this house."

"It's a fairly large house," Black says. "I'll take you on a tour after supper."

"Thank you," she says. She would like to get her bearings, but any thoughts on the house's scale are disturbed the Weasley clan, specifically the twins which sit on either side of her.

"Hello," one says.

"What's a witch like you doing in a place like this?" the other adds. Both grin wolfishly and, glancing briefly at Black's amused face, she winks at the one on her left.

"Don't know yet," she says in what she hopes is a sultry voice, "but I'm sure you can help."

"Fred, George," Molly starts, sitting down, "this is Nymphadora – "

"Tonks," she corrects, trying to ignore the way the twins' grins grow by the minute. "Just Tonks."

Soon the rest of the Weasley children are introduced, though she vaguely recalls the twins – or, at least, Charlie's mentions of them, through their reputation for trouble. There's Ron, and the youngest, Ginny, and another girl named Hermione Granger, who is not ginger but rather a bookish-looking girl with bushy brown hair. Her name sounds familiar, and it's not until she mentions it that Hermione blushes and admits that maybe Rita Skeeter, ex-reporter for the _Prophet_, may have made some unsavory hints about her relationship with one Bulgarian bon-bon Victor Krum (at this, Ron looks annoyed and Ginny absolutely amused).

Dinner is fun, and both Black and Lupin tell amusing stories and it's not until she's trying not to have Butterbeer fly out of her nose does she notice the sudden lull in conversation.

"Your hair," Hermione starts. "Your hair changed color."

"Oh," Tonks admits, pulling at a longer strand to see that it's indeed turned a shocking violet. "That happens sometimes, when I'm not paying attention."

"You're a Metamorphmagus, aren't you?" Hermione asks, and Ginny follows with, "Can you do anything neat?"

The rest of dinner is spent demonstrating her abilities, which earns much laughter from the children and a few smiles from the elder Weasleys as well.

After supper, as promised, Black takes her on a tour of the house. It takes her some time to realize that this is _his_ family home, which means it's a place her mother frequented as a youth and it shocks her that her own mum came from _this_.

It is much larger than she expected – three full floors above the kitchens, each with multiple bedrooms and baths. There's a library, and a parlor suffering from a bad doxy infestation, and a formal dining room with a large tapestry covering several of the walls. It's a tree, woven with pictures and names and once she recognizes Narcissa she knows where the conversation will go.

"Your mother should be here," he says, touching a scorch mark in the fibre. "And I should be here." His finger traces one branch over, to another scorch mark.

"Only the good ones, eh?" she says with a forced smile, though the tree bothers her tremendously. Growing up she knew little of _that_ life, so obvious in this house with its prominently displayed heads of loyal House-Elves, and numerous dark objects. Her own childhood was warm and loving in comparison. Being in this house repulses her, and that repulsion reinforces her decision to become an Auror a thousand times over (she can't even imagine what Sirius must feel…)

She catches herself calling him 'Sirius' in her head, and is nowhere as discomforted as she thinks she should be. Despite the years and the distance, despite the horrible things that have happened, standing here in this room in front of the tapestry solidifies all murky ties. It is, she assumes, as it should have always been: blood will out.

As she follows Sirius out of the room, she strongly hopes that is not the case, not completely. She wants nothing to do with the darkness of this past, the murder and betrayal and what-not of the _Toujours Pur_ Black family (she's not at all surprised to think of it so scathingly, for she's been brought up hearing the name spoken contemptuously by both her parents, much like Sirius).

When she arrives home that night, she takes a long hot shower, scrubbing away the invisible grime that seems to linger on her skin from her time at Grimmauld Place. Afterwards, skin damp and hair clinging to her forehead, she scans through her Auror handbook once more, looking once again for her notes on werewolves and dark creatures. She feels guilt for connecting the quiet, mild-mannered, aloof Lupin with these bloodthirsty beasts but, as she has had been reminded of so often these last few days, appearances and preconceptions can be deceiving (she hopes, for his sake, that is not the case).

* * *

_Author's Note: Thank you all for the many reviews - I love getting your feedback, so keep it coming ;) Also, a big thanks to my beta, Jo, for all her hard work :)  
_


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